


Standardization of Purity

by Iridogorgia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Diarmuid at Hogwarts, Forbidden Love, Herbology, Lots of schoolwork, M/M, Mutual Pining, Religious Content, Religious Guilt, Slice of Life, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-12 01:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18436535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iridogorgia/pseuds/Iridogorgia
Summary: In his seventh year of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, young Diarmuid learns that some bonds run deeper than words, people can betray you long after they’ve died, and obtaining a consistently pure extract of Whomping Willow bark is well beyond N.E.W.T. level work.





	1. Vervain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Toastmaster9000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toastmaster9000/gifts).



> Happy birthday to Toastmaster9000! She inspired this idea by forcing me to watch Pilgrimage and then consume a bunch content. If you haven't seen it yet, I highly recommend it. Tom Holland plays Diarmuid, and Jon Bernthal plays the mute (in this fic, the Groundskeeper) and it's a really beautiful piece of period fiction.

Diarmuid neatly finished packing his trunk, tidying the uniforms he hadn’t touched since folding them away on the last sunny summer day of his sixth year.  He’d been relieved to pull out his roughspun habit for the train ride to King’s Cross, almost too eager to throw the itchy trousers into his trunk. He gathered the freshly-laundered habits, skirts, cowls, and mantles the monks had given him, Brother Rua shocked at the shortness of his old ones when he’d come off the train at the beginning of summer.  They looked humble, tucked up against the starched white collars of his uniform button-downs and soft wool vests for when the weather turned chilly. His black and yellow scarf was folded into quarters and set on top.

“They must feed you well, Diarmuid, for you to be growing so tall,” Brother Ciarán had exclaimed softly, clapping him on the shoulder at the monastery.  They’d exchanged his habit shortly after, and the new skirts fell to just above his ankles. He packed an extra pair of woven sandals for walking in the woods, though he would likely be going barefoot.  They were placed firmly on top of the uncomfortable black brogues that were a part of his uniform.

“Wizards are so fond of discomfort,” he whispered to himself, adding in packages of herbs and salts from the grounds for the blisters he always got at the beginning of the year.  He had thick socks woven from the wool that was sheared from the monastery sheep, but he’d learned not to wear them until he’d developed thick enough calluses that they wouldn’t be ruined with blood.

He wedged a new cloth-bound sketchbook that had been a late birthday present from his brothers at the back of the trunk, sliding it between his new textbooks and the wall of the trunk.  He hated shopping at Diagon Alley, hated the smell and the loudness of it, and had started ordering his books and everything else by owl post as soon as he was allowed. The monks had softly asserted their worry over the birds delivering such heavy loads, showering them with water and food, and all of them had listened with rapt attention while Diarmuid had explained the differences between traditional and magical creatures.  He noticed that the same three owls always made the long trip to the monastery, and often sought out the monks who gave them the best pats and most succulent treats. All of his brothers doted on the intelligent birds, often insisting they stay and rest their tired wings. Brother Cathal, despite his initial trepidation at Diarmuid’s powers, was the monk who fussed over them the most.

He’d presented the sketchbook from last year, as he had every summer, full of details of the magical flora and fauna he saw in the woods and in his textbooks.  It was technically breaking the statute of secrecy, but the notebook, pencil, and art were non-magical and the contents could be explained away as the active imagination of a youth locked away at a boarding school on a remote Scottish moor.  He took great delight in explaining each aspect of his studies at mealtimes, sometimes able to show pressed flowers or bits of fur caught in the underbrush that he’d preserved. Once he had brought a single unicorn hair, found in the underbrush, and everyone had been in awe at the sparkling silver thread.

Every summer, he settled back into his duties at the monastery easily. Tending the bees and the garden, daily prayers that he’d missed with all his soul at Hogwarts, comfortable mealtimes with simple, rustic fare that nourished the soul and the body.  Packing up for the new school year filled him with a mixture of excitement and homesickness. The bells, the chanting, and prayers. The slower, more appreciative rhythm of life was something he always missed.

Magical institute of learning it may be, but it was curiously lacking in allowances for worship.  There were several young women in hijab, one young man wore a kippah, and his robe was tolerated, but he’d never seen anyone praying before meals even as he gave his own little thanks to the Father for the bounty before him and the blessings that had lead him there.  There was no church on premises, no mosque, no temple, even as Roman gods and old Celtic ones were bandied about as easily as if they were still revered. He’d almost choked the first time he heard someone swear by Circe’s pigs, and his brothers had gaped when he talked about the mishmash of gods and goddesses he heard every day.  

He still sang his hymns, but only when he was alone, and only when he was out in the quiet of the grounds.  The elderly groundskeeper, Hagrid, sometimes sat with him and quietly whittled while he sang. They’d formed a comfortable understanding since his first year, where Diarmuid was allowed to roam the grounds, but to go deeper into the forest, he had to have Hagrid with him.  Diarmuid had taken over tasks that the older man’s arthritic fingers were no longer nimble enough to do and learned how to practically apply his lessons in Herbology in the wild.

The last thing he did was reach into the slim pocket in the corner of the trunk, designed to hold his wand while it wasn’t in use in the Muggle world and pull out the slim length of chestnut and unicorn hair, feeling it hum pleasantly in his palm.  His hands settled over the delicate dips and whorls of the Celtic knotwork that covered the handle. It felt almost as much like home as the familiar stone halls of the monastery. He clutched it, closing his eyes, and his magic sighed through him. He placed it into his pocket and surveyed the contents of his trunk once more.

Satisfied that everything was going to stay as steady as it could without magic, Diarmuid closed the trunk with finality.  It was time to go. The journey was long, and the train waited for no one.

 

* * *

 

Brother Ciarán unfolded himself from behind the wheel of the ancient little Volkswagen, laying his seat flat to begin wrestling Diarmuid’s trunk out from the back.  The journey from Kilmannan monastery had taken a full day, nearly ten hours, and they’d had to leave late the previous night to make it in time.

“Allow me, brother,” Diarmuid murmured, palming his wand and casting a feather-weight charm on the trunk.  They’d been given lectures on when and where they could cast spells to assist in the lifting of the heavy trunks after their first year, and Diarmuid had waited until they’d been inside of the parking garage.  There were small runes, invisible to the Muggle eye, that told him he was in a safe space.

Brother Ciarán stood slowly, his back cracking with a look of pain on his face.  He wasn’t getting any younger, his neatly-kept beard liberally streaked with grey, but he’d refused all of Diarmuid’s potions and poultices to help his aching joints.  ‘A man ages as he ages, young monk,’ he’d said, ‘I will use the land here to heal my body.’ His habit didn’t hide the aging paunch of his belly, or the gnarled bones of his toes and fingers.  He was the only monk that had a driver’s license, and the trip was long and taxing on his body. This was the last time he would have to do it, and honestly, Diarmuid could have Apparated, but after leaving Hogwarts he would officially never have to take the Hogwarts Express again.  It was a milestone, and Brother Ciarán had insisted.

Diarmuid watched him surreptitiously as he easily pulled the trunk out of the back.  He had been tasked with thinking about his self-study project for Herbology by Professor Longbottom over the summer, and he was now determined to find a monk-approved remedy for joint pain.  Something magical enough to be more effective than Muggle plants, but not in the form of a potion or a salve that his brother would reject out of hand. A special strain of flower, perhaps, or a more medicinal willow tree.  Diarmuid shrank the trunk, placed several stabilizing charms on it, and slipped it into the special pocket he’d sewn into his habit every summer since he was eleven.

It would stay there until it was time to load it onto the train, full size and tightly packed with his classmates.

Brother Ciarán placed one tanned, callused hand on the peeling yellow hood of the car, the other on his hip, looking at Diarmuid with affection.  They stood silently for several minutes before he opened his mouth and asked in Irish, “Have you thought of what you will do, Diarmuid, when you graduate?”

He hadn’t expected the question, and Diarmuid froze.  He blinked rapidly and pushed his curls out of his face.  Brother Rua had trimmed his hair for him, shorter than he wanted but still long enough to get in his face, and stuttered, “I… no… I thought… Will I be welcome back, Brother?”

He looked down immediately, studying his own rough, earth-worn feet.  It hadn’t occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, the brothers would not want a full-fledged wizard living amongst them.

Brother Ciarán moved his hand from his hip to Diarmuid’s shoulder, on the edge of his mantle, and when he looked up the older man’s face was serious.  “The monastery is your home, and the monks are your family. You will always be welcome. But you have been given a gift, Diarmuid, and God may be showing you that you are meant for a larger purpose in the world.  You came to us as a newborn babe, no name but the one we gave you, and we have helped you become a fine young man. We sing for you, every day, for your happiness and for God to bless your path with trials to strengthen you.  We are all proud of you, Diarmuid, and do not want you to chain yourself to a life that would prevent you from helping others with your gifts.”

Diarmuid had teared up shamelessly at the heartfelt speech and wordlessly drew the older monk into a hug.  They embraced as a father and son, a family, before there was a warning chime that only Diarmuid could hear.

They parted, both wiping at their eyes, and Diarmuid reached out and compulsively grasped Brother Ciarán’s gnarled hand.  “Please,” he said, tightly, his voice still thick with tears, and the older monk instantly understood.

“Only once, Diarmuid, to ease my way home.”  He didn’t sound happy, but his eyes smiled gently.

Diarmuid allowed his magic, soft and warm like a summer morning, to build under his skin, and closed his eyes in concentration.  He had been reading healing texts for the last four years, preparing for this moment. The magic flowed from him in a river of golden light, finding and soothing the joints made stiff with inflammation.  Despite himself, Brother Ciarán gave an audible sigh of relief as his fingers became pliant and easily flexed. His magic pulsed, once, and sank into the hips, knees, elbows, and fingers. A light residue would remain for the rest of the day, into the next morning.

Diarmuid allowed his fingertips to run over Brother Ciarán’s palm, feeling the deep lifeline and map of scars, as he let his hand drop.  He promised himself that one day, he would ease his brother’s pain permanently. He turned his mind, determinedly, to his Herbology project, and felt a fire light in him.

“Thank you, Brother Diarmuid, for your gift,” Brother Ciarán embraced him again, lightly, before giving him a gentle shove.  “You must go, before you miss your train!”

Without another word, Diarmuid gave him a watery smile, straightened his spine, and set out for the last Hogwarts Express ride he would ever take going to Scotland.

 

* * *

 

As he settled himself into an empty cabin on the Hogwarts Express, the plush seats inviting as he took his trunk out of his pocket and resized it with a tap of his wand.  The rush of magic was almost overwhelming, and he blinked as the trunk resized faster than normal, dropping across two seats with a loud _thump_.

He levitated it with a wordless _Wingardium Leviosa_ into the space above the seats, securing it with a mild sticking charm.

He had just settled himself into the seat nearest the window, facing the journey forward, content to allow the hours pass in quiet meditation and silent prayer, when the door slid open and a tiny anxious face peeped in, “ _Manach Diarmuid!”_

Siobhan Mangan, who would be entering her second year of Ravenclaw, hurriedly dragged her own trunk into the cabin and shut the door.  Her long red hair, delicate skin covered in freckles, and eyes a bright clover green, she looked about ten times more Irish than Diarmuid did.  He had found her sobbing in a covered alcove last year; growing up a very remote part of Western Ireland, she spoke mostly Irish and nobody knew how to pronounce her name.  She’d been wildly homesick for the forests and moors, and Diarmuid had taken her under his wing. He’d taught her more English and a passive way to correct the pronunciation of her given name, including how to come up with a nickname if nobody could get it right.

Diarmuid himself had just accepted his moniker of ‘Dia’ or a simple ‘D’ from most of his classmates.

Siobhan had slowly blossomed through the rest of the year, even going so far as to collect her own little group of friends that were curiously absent now.

“Siobhan,” he nodded politely and waved his wand, levitating her own trunk up next to his.  She threw herself into her seat across from him, and they smiled at each other. He found himself reflexively uncomfortable, as it was forbidden at his monastery for the monks to spend time alone with the opposite sex, but he soothed himself with the thought that Siobhan was a child in need of guidance.  He was a friendly, safe space that radiated peace.

“How was your summer?” she asked in thickly accented English.  She’d been practicing, he could tell, and he beamed at her. Speaking nothing but Irish was extremely uncommon, given most schools taught both Irish and English equally, but he didn’t want to pry into her background.

“It was… restful,” he replied simply, and pointedly asked, “How was yours?”

They talked back and forth for half of an hour before they ran out of subjects, and she pulled out a ream of parchment and the Standard Book of Spells, Volume 2, reading a chapter further than he expected her to.

He’d raised his eyebrow but said nothing, turning his attention to the rolling green hills and slipping into light meditation.

Diarmuid was always pleased when the cabin was mostly empty, or a single studious student like Siobhan sat with him and let him be.  He had acquaintances and was not disliked in his house, but his complete difference from the average teenage boy and preference for silence made him less a target for friendship or sharing an enclosed space.  His brothers had prepared him for teasing and cruel pranks, but past his first year when Daniel McLaggen had sent a stinging hex his way and his reflexive shielding charm had bounced it back tenfold, he’d won the begrudging respect of most of his year mates.  If not respect, then at least a wide berth.

Professor Potter, of Defense Against the Dark Arts, had pulled him aside and quietly given him extra defensive homework.  He’d studied until his shields had earned him a place in Dueling Club, even giving demonstrations on how to defend adequately against attacks from wizards or witches a dozen or more years senior.  Those long days spent studying and sweating from exertion in classrooms that smelled of dust and parchment drew him into a quiet contemplation.

Before he knew it, his eyes had drifted shut and he’d spent the entire ride contained inside of himself.  He only rose up out of his meditation when a tiny finger hesitantly poked his shoulder.

“You must dress,” Siobhan had withdrawn her hand instantly, clenching it into a fist, already in her own blue and bronze.  Her hat was crooked on her head, and he reached out to tidy it.

“I will-” he bit out, then stopped and breathed in, “May I have privacy, Siobhan?”

For all that he was thankful that he could wear his comfortable, simple habit on the train, the idea of changing his clothes in front of _any_ of his classmates had never sat well with him.

She blushed brighter than her hair, her eyes instantly flicking to his stomach, before murmuring an assent and practically slamming the door closed behind her.  Siobhan, he remembered belatedly, would have her thirteenth birthday within two weeks. She was older than her classmates, and she would likely have started puberty early.  It would come with… urges.

As he cast temporary locking and privacy charms on the door and open window, bringing his trunk down and exchanging his vestments for his class uniform, Diarmuid thought uncomfortably about what it would mean for her to develop an… affection for him.

As he zipped up the pants and shrugged on the shirt, he thought back to the many lessons on sex he’d had from his brothers, every summer, and even as a young child.  It was difficult to live on land with farm animals on it and not understand the basics of procreation. But when Brother Ciarán had sat him down and explained all of it, in detail… Well.  He was dedicated to God. The thought of Siobhan or any of the other young woman batting their eyelashes and _flirting_ with him made his skin crawl uncomfortably.  He shook his head and became determined to be a pillar or virtue, a fine example for those who looked up to him.

Diarmuid refused to think any further on it and straightened his vest, slinging his yellow and black tie around his neck.  He fumbled through a single Windsor knot, the only one any of the monks had known and folded his habit deftly. He gave his roughly-woven sandals one last pat before tucking them away, bringing out his cheap black woolen socks and uncomfortable shiny shoes.  He allowed himself to touch the thick socks, made from the wool from the sheep at the monastery, his brothers had made for him, closing his eyes and steeling himself for the discomfort of breaking his feet back into the unnaturally-shaped shoes. He could wear the socks soon enough, once the blisters had faded into calluses.

Once the last lace was tied, his trunk was put back, and his robe was laid out next to him, he removed the charms to protect his modesty from the door.

When Siobhan didn’t come charging right back in, he peeked out to find her laughing with a group of other Ravenclaw students in the hallway, one of them handing her a pumpkin pasty.

He smiled softly at the sight and closed the door noiselessly.

 

* * *

 

Once the train had pulled into Hogsmeade, Diarmuid graciously helped Siobhan get her trunk down, levitating his own behind him as he navigated the crush of students.  Most left their trunks for the house elves to deal with, but Diarmuid always felt better about bringing his up to the main hall. He would have brought it all the way to his dormitory if he was allowed, but the prefects had stopped him time and time again.

Once he had learned what a house elf was, he’d been horrified to learn they had been serving him without his knowledge, and therefore without his thanks, for years.  He’d rushed to his head of house, Professor Sprout, in tears before she’d allowed him to meet the elf attending him and his year mates.

Her name was Lucky, and her eyes were blue.

The first lesson was to never give them an article of clothing, no matter how small, as it would free them from the bond that the desired most ardently.  In a way, having been at the monastery his entire life and never wishing to be cast out, Diarmuid could sympathize. Lucky strongly resisted any attempt to help with her chores but did delight in any help that he meekly requested.  She loved paying special attention to cleaning his habit, taking care of each fiber to make it neat.

His feelings still mixed on the subject, he decided to be as kind to Lucky as he was to all God’s creatures, and had started to bring her offerings from the monastery every year.  He put them in a box on top of his crate, usually a skein of wool, a pot of honey, a jar of sharp pickles, and was rewarded with fresh tea when he woke up for his morning prayers. Sometimes, not often, she would join him, and he delighted in the simple conversations they would have.

Lucky was a content, dedicated little elf, and he basked in her presence.

So he set the little receptacle on top of his trunk, carefully secured, and allowed the tide of students to bring him to the Great Hall.

He sat at the front of the Hufflepuff table, wanting to be the first to greet any new students with a smile, and bowed his head in thanks for the meal they were about to receive.  For the flesh of God’s creatures, the vegetables grown in His earth, and the labor of the elves to prepare it.

Diarmuid looked up at the high table, nodding and waving to each professor in turn, when he noticed there was a new man.  He paused, counting the professors again.

Nobody had left.

Was there to be a new subject introduced?

The man didn’t look like a teacher.  He looked right at home next to Hagrid in fact, his wild black beard and curling hair that brushed his eyebrows giving him a rougher, less polished appearance.  He looked uncomfortable at his spot at the end of the table, his shoulders hunched beneath a thick blue jacket, Muggle instead of wizarding robes, but Hagrid was chattering away at him and gently touched his shoulder to get his attention.

Diarmuid realized he’d been staring when the man looked at Hagrid, stiffened, and immediately looked at him.

His eyes were as black as his hair, hooded and distrustful.  He stared at Diarmuid, almost challengingly, and didn’t return his hesitant smile and half-hearted wave.  Hagrid caught his gaze and returned the wave large enough for both of them, a smile splitting his own salt-and-pepper facial hair.

He watched the new man’s head incline an inch as Hagrid gestured toward him fondly.  He liked Hagrid, he really did, and they had bonded during their time in the forest, but he wished he knew what he was saying.  What he was telling this man who still hadn’t looked away, and there was something in that gaze that made his heart beat a little faster.  He furrowed his brow, wondering.

The man’s hands were on the table, big and well-worn, he could tell even from here, the awkward way he held the golden fork and knife despite the fact the food wouldn’t show up for another twenty minutes, and as Diarmuid watched, the man slowly ran one thumb up the handle of his knife.

The gesture felt obscene, the slow slide of skin over metal, and when Diarmuid looked back at his face, his large features nearly obscured by facial hair but he found that he didn't quite mind, those black eyes were boring into him.

‘He’s doing that on purpose,’ Diarmuid realized and took a heavy drink of water.  ‘He’s noticing me.’

He felt a horror dawning on him, a terrible stirring in his blood, as he realized that he _liked_ the attention.

He _liked_ it.

The revelation was so unexpected, so sudden, that he choked on his water and had to wave away the concern of the students nearest him.  He pulled the linen napkin out of the place setting and cleaned himself.

He wished, suddenly, for the loose skirts of his habit instead of the restrictive pants of his uniform.  They felt tighter, and he didn’t want to think about why. He was sure his face was red, and he immediately looked down at his plate.  He felt the eyes of the man on the back of his head and had to force himself to not turn around.

He was saved from more introspection by Headmistress Sinistra, who had replaced Headmistress McGonagall the previous year at the time of her retirement.  She stood quietly, her deep blue robes adorned with twinkling stars, and clapped her hands together once. The shockwave reverberated through the hall, and she smiled sternly as silence slowly fell.

Headmistress Sinistra was a restrained, imposing figure, tall and slim.  Her hair was freshly shaved, and her dark skin shone in the bright candlelight.  Eyes half-mast and sleepy, but still sharp, surveyed the crowd, and her smile turned kinder as she gained everyone’s attention.  She flicked her hands upwards in an elegant gesture, and the doors to the Great Hall flung dramatically open.

A gaggle of wee firsties, little and nervous, followed the Deputy Headmaster, Professor Longbottom, like a bunch of newborn ducklings.  There were murmurs through the hall as the group, smaller than past years, Diarmuid counted maybe fifteen children, huddled close to the front of the high table.

Headmistress Sinistra snapped her fingers and a tall stool, the worn Sorting Hat balanced on the seat, levitated to the usual spot in front of the high table.  “Let the Sorting begin,” she intoned with her deep, low voice.

As much as he tried to keep his mind on the young ones, the back of his neck kept prickling.  He was being watched, and all of the hair on his forearms stood up. He felt the solid wall of an automatic shielding charm come up around his back.

Professor Potter shot him a look, clapping absently for another addition to Gryffindor, and Diarmuid shook his head subtly.  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he thought forcefully, running through the exercises to relax his magic and lower the shield. Nobody at his table noticed, and Professor Potter’s attention was eventually stolen by another first-year sorted into his house.

Diarmuid smiled reflexively at each of the five Hufflepuffs that joined his table, three girls and two boys, and mentally chastised himself for not remembering any of their names.

He could still feel _eyes_ on the back of his neck.

As the last little Slytherin scurried over to the green-and-silver adorned table, Headmistress Sinistra stood again, flicking three fingers to send the stool and hat zooming back to where they’d come from.  She pressed her fingertips together until the crowd died down, and then began her speech, “To our new students, welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. May you be blessed with challenges and the wit, strength, and skill to overcome them.  To our returning students, we welcome you back. We regret to announce that Rubeus Hagrid has decided to retire from his positions as Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

Diarmuid wasn’t the only student to audibly gasp, half of the crowd turning as one to look at the half-giant.  He dipped his chin a fraction, his eyes slightly damp. Headmistress clapped twice, and all of the heads snapped back to her.  She looked faintly annoyed, but smoothed her expression, “He has consented to stay on staff as Professor for Care of Magical Creatures.  His replacement has declined to give his name, and has requested to be addressed as ‘Groundskeeper.’”

The dark, wild-looking man stood, and Diarmuid felt his mouth go dry.  He was _tall_ , broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted.  His coat strained over his arms, and he nodded to the student body as a whole, eyes catching on Diarmuid again, before slowly sitting next to Hagrid.  The larger man clapped him painfully on the shoulder.

Headmistress Sinistra allowed the shouts of welcome to die down before raising up her arms, sleeves of her robe coming down to display intricate silver stitching on the hems that just brushed the floor.  “May the feast begin! Hogwarts welcomes you home.”

He blinked as heaps of decadent food appeared on platters and trays, most of it too rich for his stomach.  The life of a humble monk often meant simple meals, and he had found the fare at Hogwarts repulsive at first.  It was all too fatty, too much butter, too much cream, and after two meals upsetting his stomach, he found simple, rustic food always appeared near him.  Roasted chicken, potatoes, roasted seasonal vegetables and thick slices of bread. The vegetables still tasted of the garden and the bread was never over-salted.  Automatically, he filled his plate.

Diarmuid had never been attracted to anyone before.  ‘If you accept him as a friend, gain his trust, treat him as a brother,’ he thought desperately while he mindlessly ate parsnips and tender slices of chicken, ‘then this will subside.  The feelings will go. Or simply leave him be. This is your last year. You need not acknowledge it.’

Belatedly, he realized he would no longer be accompanying _Hagrid_ into the Forbidden Forest.  If he wanted to go for his studies, for his sketching, for his own curiosity, he had to gain the agreement of the new Keeper of Keys and Grounds.  What had seemed like such a simple task as a first year, faced with the wall of man that was Hagrid, suddenly seemed impossible. He considered, only for a moment, breaking the rules and going on his own.  A little first year gave a high-pitched giggle, and his eyes caught the red of Siobhan’s hair at the Ravenclaw table. No. He had to set a good example for the younger students.

He steeled himself as the main course disappeared and desserts piled up in front of him, turned around, and blinked rapidly.  The chair at the end of the High Table was empty.

The man was gone.


	2. Quaking Grass

Diarmuid studied his class schedule in the early light, after his morning prayers.  Monday was very light, Herbology in the morning and the remainder of the day as study periods.  He had Astronomy at midnight, so he penciled in an early nap before dinner to give himself energy.  He mulled over the rest of his schedule, nibbling on the end of his quill, pink light filtering in through the poured-glass windows.

He wore his habit in the morning, without the hood or mantle, hair combed roughly with his fingers, and no shoes on his feet.  He pressed the uneven skin against the soft yellow carpet as he relaxed into one of the rough-hewn study chairs. He had an hour, maybe two, before he really had to start putting on his uniform and gathering his supplies.

With a soft _pop_ , an earthenware mug and pot appeared next to him, steam curling out of the spout.  He beamed as Lucky appeared a minute after, balancing a tray with a wooden bowl of porridge, soft and pale, smaller containers of honey, brown sugar, berries, and a tiny pitcher of fresh milk.

He smiled wider as the tray turned and a diminutive version of his bowl, filled to the brim with the same porridge, was revealed.

Diarmuid had started insisting, at the end of his fifth year, that Lucky sit with him while he took his tea or broke his fast.  She had resisted until he had brought the rough tea set back from the monastery, with one regular cup and it’s elf-sized partner.

She had relented to tea until April when he had requested she partake in his bounty of freshly picked vegetables out in the garden.  From then, they had taken a meal together at least once a week.

He’d been allowed a small, unused patch of dirt the year before Professor Sprout had retired.  She’d smiled at him fondly as he chattered about bringing seeds, starts and maybe a small fruit tree to the grounds, so he could work the land and have a taste of home.  Lucky had started helping him, other elves as well when he wasn't there, and most of his food at mealtime came from the tiny patch of dirt behind Greenhouse 6. Professor Sprout had doted on him, praising his skill with plants and all manner of living creatures.

She looked around surreptitiously for any other students before slowly setting out her own bowl.

Diarmuid fought back the frown.  All of his pureblood, Wizarding-born classmates were shocked at his friendship with the little elf, even the Muggleborn students raised eyebrows.  It bothered him how they considered the elves as part of the furniture, not worthy of even the smallest autonomy. He had heard stories of some of the crueler families, and the way they treated their elves worse than he could imagine.  He longed to free them, allow them their own way in the world, but for now, the most he could do was sit with Lucky and treat her as an equal. He was a mountain of calm in front of the gossip and cruel insinuations of his classmates, but it was worth it as he saw some of the younger ones start to treat any visible elves with respect.

So, as she neatly arranged the bowls and cutlery, he thoughtfully poured Lucky the fragrant herbal tea she had provided.  A lovely blend, he inhaled it appreciatively. She gave him a wide smile and added a dollop of honey to her cup.

“Lucky is thanking you,” she murmured, and he offered her his gratitude as well as he took the proffered bowl of porridge.

He silently thanked God for the company and the food, closing his eyes to truly convey his appreciation, before they both started to pile additions into their porridge.  They ate in silence for a time before a thought struck him.

He swallowed his chewy, creamy mouthful, patting his mouth with his linen napkin and taking a fortifying sip of tea, before clearing his throat and asking, “Lucky, do any of the older elves have problems with their knees or elbows?”

She almost dropped her spoon in surprise before setting it back in her bowl, frowning, “I is not understanding.”  Her wide, bat-like ears perked in interest and she tilted her head.

He touched his own shoulder and elbow in response, “The joints.  Arthritis, as we Muggles call it. You and yours do hard labor your entire lives.  Do any of the older elves have problems?”

Her ears flopped back as she nodded her head in sudden understanding, “Oh, Master Diarmuid speaks of the hobbling!  Lucky has heard of such an ailment, but the elves at Hogwarts are allowed to use the Whomping Willow bark in our remedy.  It takes away the pain and restores the movement.” She nodded sagely, tucking back into her porridge.

Diarmuid’s mind was whirring.  The Whomping Willow, how could he have been so blind?  The enormous, violent tree dominated an entire section of the grounds.  He had often balked at the way it would whip it’s slim branches around, injuring at least five students each year that tried to get close on a dare.  Despite his interest in Herbology, and his proficiency at it, he had never been able to muster up the courage to deal with the more violent plants. Devil’s Snare, Venomous Tentacula, Professor Sprout and then Professor Longbottom had to practically force him to interact with them.

Willow bark was a very common anti-inflammatory and pain reducer, the monks at the monastery and harvested and processed their own on a regular basis.

Lucky looked at him, eyes flicking between the spoon and his face, then out to where the sun was getting higher in the sky.

Realizing the time, he started to shovel food in his face, too late to savor it.

At the first rustle of feet on the dorm staircases, Lucky snapped her fingers and vanished, along with the last two bites of his porridge and the rest of his tea.

 

* * *

 

Diarmuid was tempted to go to the communal morning meal, unwilling to admit to himself that he wanted to see if the new Groundskeeper was going to join.  He just wanted to make sure the new students were welcomed properly. That was it, he told himself.

The new Groundskeeper, however, could also use a friendly face to look upon over his eggs and toast.  Or porridge. The broadness of his shoulders suggested something substantial to start the day, protein and carbohydrates.

However, given how uncomfortable he had seemed at the Welcoming Feast, he strongly doubted he would attend.  Hagrid, when he was acting as Keeper of Keys and Grounds, had only attended the feasts for specific events and holidays.

He remembered, suddenly, that Hagrid had told him as a first year that the duties of Groundskeeper often had him rising before first light and constantly busy until well past the twilight hour.  Especially at the start of the school year.

Already in his uniform, wandering toward the Great Hall, he paused and slipped into an alcove.  One lined with lead-glass windows, overlooking the forest and lake, and he searched the landscape until Hagrid’s bushy head crested a slight hill, the messy dark hair of the new Groundskeeper appearing a moment later.

He ignored the way his heart skipped a beat.

There was still time before Herbology, and that took place outside anyway.  He’d eaten with Lucky, and there were seventh years aplenty to look after the little ones.

Before he could change his mind, he calculated the direction they were walking in and started to jog toward the main entrance.

 

* * *

 

“Hagrid!” he called, voice slightly louder than normal, and both men turned their heads to watch him take the last long strides toward them, toes digging into the soft loam and black brogues held in one hand.  He’d stuffed the socks into the toes, his feet singing to feel the earth again.

“Young monk,” Hagrid called cheerfully, raising one large hand in greeting.  The new Groundskeeper tilted his head sharply, looking between them with an obvious question in his eyes.

Without missing a beat, Hagrid continued, sliding his eyes over to the dark man, “Diarmuid is a brother of…”  He faltered and his voice trailed off meaningfully.

The Groundskeeper slid dark, mistrustful eyes over to Diarmuid, who suddenly felt like his tongue was too thick for his mouth.  Those eyes flicked over him once, and one dark brow quirked up. He turned more of his broad, muscled body toward him, and he realized he’d been silent for too long.  Both men were looking at him expectantly. “I’m a Franciscan monk,” he blurted, quickly, and felt his face warm. “My monastery is in a small, very rural part of Ireland.  You’ve likely never heard of it. We keep to ourselves.”

“Diarmuid is exceptionally talented with Herbology,” Hagrid boasted, smiling and gesturing back at the greenhouses, “If you ever need a second pair of hands when dealing with the grounds, he’s the one to ask.”

Diarmuid gave a sheepish smile that the larger man didn’t return, but he lost some of the tension around his eyes.  He eased his grip on a leather bag full of branches, their quivering golden leaves poking out. Oh, yes. That.

He ran a hand through his curls, pushing them out of his face, and his smile turned warm.  “I meant to introduce myself, and it is my luck that Hagrid is with you. I know, Hagrid, that you gave your permission for me to wander the Forest last year on my own, but-”

Hagrid cut him off with a laugh, “Always worried about setting an example for the firsties!  It’s rare for a student to come along who knows how much the wee ones are watching.”

The Groundskeeper watched the exchange between them silently, his broad features carefully blank.  He adjusted his stance and looked over both shoulders, scanning the sky and the edge of the forest.  The leaves, which he would likely tear from the branches into neat piles ready to be mangled into a chiffonade by fourth-year potions students, shivered and made a little sighing noise.  The early morning light caught on their gilt edges, shimmering beautifully.

Without thinking about it, Diarmuid shoved one hand out in front of him, “Diarmuid O'Maolomhnaigh, seventh year Hufflepuff and aspiring Herbology specialist.  I’m hoping you’ll allow me to accompany you into the Forbidden Forest a few times a week through the year.” His hand hung in the air, trembling only slightly before the Groundskeeper reached out and solidly clasped it.

Immediately, Diarmuid felt an electric tingle that went all the way from the top of his head to the bottom of his toes.  The man’s hand was large, callused and scarred. He swore he could feel the other man’s heartbeat through his palm, and tried not to blush at the way the tips of his fingers lingered.

The Groundskeeper squeezed his hand once, thumb stroking the sensitive webbing between his own thumb and forefinger, and the Groundskeeper gave him a knowing look as their fingers brushed on the release.  Diarmuid let out a shaky little breath, his blinking quickly. He flexed his fingers into a fist and brought them to his side.

Hagrid, oblivious to the sudden atmospheric tension, started filling the air with pleasant chatter.  “Diarmuid, you’ll be interested in how the unicorn herd is coming along, those foals born last year are near full grown.  We’ll be discussing the possibility of safely transporting a few of them to new herds in the south, and maybe we can discuss a dwindling herd in Germany and one in northern France.  A little bit of new blood never hurt nothin’.”  His voice faded into a pleasant buzz on Diarmuid's ears.

He nodded dumbly, the eyes of the Groundskeeper still on his face.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day passed in a blur, Herbology the same new-year lecture about safety in the greenhouse and checking over all of the gear for defects, rust or cracks.  Professor Longbottom droned on as they worked about their end-of-year projects and scheduling meetings with everyone to discuss their specific reasons for taking N.E.W.T. level Herbology.

As he listened with half an ear, he learned that some of his classmates were interested in Potions apprenticeships, working in the medical field, and becoming specific investigators in the Ministry.  Diarmuid was the only student of his year to want to specialize in Herbology without a specific career in mind. Professor Longbottom hadn’t outright said anything, but he felt the eyes on the back of his neck.

He pulled his wand out and started repairing the rotten wooden handles of three rakes, shoving his future out of his mind for the meditation of hard work.

He left the greenhouse before Professor Longbottom could call for him to stay behind.

 

* * *

 

Immediately after the last study period of the day, Diarmuid hobbled back to his dormitory and transfigured a wooden bucket out of his belt.  He summoned the bag of salt and herbs from his trunk, pouring a measured handful into the bin.

Reaching down, he frantically untied the laces to his too-tight shoes, swollen feet pressing against the immovable seams.  Shucking them off, and peeling the socks off of his feet, he muttered an _Aquamenti_ , steaming water pouring out of his wand and sloshing into the bucket.

Immediately, the fragrance of the herbs, the tang of the sea salt, filled the air, and Diarmuid had a flash of homesickness that made him want to weep.  He inhaled deeply, flexing the stiff toes that had been pinched together all day, and exhaled in a hiss as he slowly slid them into the bucket. The salt stung the abrasions, but he closed his eyes and flopped back on the bed, determined to distract his mind from the pain.

For how much he was a wizard, he still believed in treating wounds in the way of his brothers.  The first time Madam Pomfrey had eased his pain with a spell, he’d rejected it. The flesh had been fine, perfectly healthy, but…  There had been something missing. He knew the pain of his body knitting itself back together, and it always seemed that his flesh remembered.  With the spell, there was no memory. There was only injury, then health. A wound, and then nothing.

He’d thanked her with a trembling voice and never gone back.

Absently shoving one of his pillows under his head, and thought back to that morning, how good it had felt to pull his shoes off and run through the damp grounds.  The dew, the delicate blades of grass, the well-loved earth between his toes.

The Groundskeeper, running his thumb over Diarmuid’s own.

He swallowed and blushed, even now, at the memory.  He clasped his hands together and wiggled his toes in the water, feeling the dried herbs wiggling their way between.

He shoved his mind in another direction.

Herbology.  The future. Hagrid said he specialized in Herbology, but to what end?  He was good with plants, perhaps better than most, but…

Did he want a career outside of the monastery?  Away from his brothers? To work in the Wizarding world, earn _coin_ for his labors instead of the thanks of his family, he instantly recoiled in disgust at the idea.  The monastery was self-supporting, and all of his clothing, books, and supplies had been quietly funded out of an account for ‘impoverished’ students.  Diarmuid and his like had no need for man-made money. He never felt tempted to buy trinkets or sweets from Hogsmede, never felt the loss of gold or silver at all.  He never felt ‘impoverished’.

He, instead, had never felt richer.  The knowledge available at his fingertips, the wealth of opportunity for hard work, the new friends he’d made, all of it was more valuable than mere _money_.  So to put his gifts to use, to exchange his time and knowledge, for something so banal… he didn’t know if he could do it.  He really, really didn’t.  Even Brother Cairán's speech before the train didn't help sway him.

Instead, he closed his eyes and imagined a world where he fortified the monastery, sometimes targeted by thieves or zealots for the mysterious, rumored ‘relic’ that was hidden on the grounds, with strong shielding charms.  Encouraging the garden to be more plentiful, the bees more productive, and working with Brother Ciarán’s body to repair the damage to his joints. A place where he used his magic for the earth and his brothers and very little else.

He dozed in the daydream until there was a hard poke in his forehead, and he opened his eyes to a very annoyed Lucky.

His feet were sitting in cold water, and it was dark outside.  He'd missed dinner.

His fellow seventh-years were already asleep, snores filling the air.  Diarmuid cast a reflexive silencing charm, cloaking his bed so he could speak freely.

“Yous missed the feast,” she said crossly, as soon as the charm sealed them in their own little bubble.  She was holding a wooden tray, the same from the morning, and it was piled with a rustic meal of bread, butter, fall vegetables, and a small roasted chicken.  There were two plates on the tray, and two sets of cutlery.

“I… fell asleep,” he winced as he pulled his wet feet out of the bucket, and Lucky snapped her fingers impatiently.  Instantly, his feet were dry and covered in fuzzy socks, the water was banished and his belt was restored, neatly folded on his bedside table.  He waved his wand and a thick blanket popped into existence on his bed, red and white, soft but firm enough that Lucky could set out their meal.

He smiled behind his hand.  She’d never consented to eat dinner with him before, and never two meals in one day.  Silently, she plated their meal and conjured a teapot with soothing chamomile already steaming out of the spout.  He took a grateful sip out of his cup after she poured, and then picked up a fork and turned it around in his hands.

“Lucky,” she paused with a bite of squash already halfway to her mouth, sharp blue eyes narrowing.  He almost bit his tongue and went back to eating, but pressed forward, “How… did you know you wanted to be a house-elf?”  She set her fork down firmly and cocked her head, her expression between displeased and interested. As she folded her skinny arms across her thin chest, he hurriedly explained, “It’s just… I don’t know that I want to work in the Wizarding world after I graduate.  I’m a monk, I’ve always been a monk, and I don’t want to be anything else. Even now, I’m just… a monk with magic.” He ducked his head and shoveled a bite of potato into his mouth.

Lucky was quiet for a minute, then sighed, “Lucky is a house-elf.  Lucky is always a house-elf. House-elves are born as house-elves. Sometimes, there are elves that change, but their road is hard.  An elf, Dobby, was freed from his family, and he was _paid_ for his work here at Hogwarts.”  She slipped into a different, more modern form of speech, a misty look in her eye.  “Coin cheapens out labor. I work out of love. I am provided with all that I need. Lucky thinks….” and instantly her ears went back.  Diarmuid nodded encouragingly, he’d been working on getting Lucky to express her opinion freely for nearly three years. “Lucky thinks… that Master Diarmuid should do what will let him sleep best at night with a full heart.”

Without thinking about it, he reached out and snapped her up into a tight hug, their cups and plates automatically moving out of the way and hovering where they wouldn’t be knocked over.

He held her for a long time, her arms eventually coming up to return his embrace, and as he released her, he choked out, “If I asked you to come with me after I graduate, would you?”  He was surprised, he hadn’t thought… but it made sense. Lucky was treated like property here, and he had come to think of her as a dear friend. She looked shocked, so he kept talking, “You would love the monastery, the grounds, the life is simple and the work is hard but there is true love.  You could be an elf, but all of my brothers would accept you as… as… as a _person_.”

“But Lucky is not a person,” she answered immediately, still reeling from his proposal.  “Lucky is a house-elf. But-” she looked away and stepped back, setting herself on her side of the blanket.  The food came back between them and she took a strong drink of her tea. Closing her eyes, she sat straighter, “Lucky will consider the proposal.  We would need to transfer ownership,” Diarmuid frowned and she ignored it, “so we would need to talk to the Headmistress and the Head Elf. But Lucky will think about… her response.  She is lucky,” they both smiled, although sadly, “that she is permitted the freedom of choice.”

Quietly, they finished their meal.  Lucky vanished with the dishes silently, and Diarmuid left the firm blanket on top of his bed.  The autumn night was cold, but it reminded him of the Irish winds blowing through his monastery.  ‘God will chill you,’ Brother Rua had said, ‘to make you thankful for the warmth He provides.’

Diarmuid slept, on top of the covers and trembling with cold, and was grateful for it.

If he dreamt about dark, thoughtful eyes and broad shoulders, he’d try to forget in his morning prayers.

It didn’t occur to him until the next day that he missed the first Astronomy class entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that has read so far, and I added the 'slow burn' tag to this story. It's gonna be so slow. SO SLOW. Lots of character building and little moments between them. Please let me know what you thought!

**Author's Note:**

> And that's the first chapter! Please let me know what you thought. Forgive anything I got wrong!


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